Spectral Hound
by KSherwood
Summary: As you value your life and reason, keep away from the moor!  Holmes and Sherwood also encounter skulls, spiders, name mix-ups in this adaptation of The Hound of the Baskervilles!
1. Skulls and Spiders

The Spectral Hound

I walked into the quarters at Baker Street that I shared with Sherlock Holmes and noticed two things out of the ordinary. There was a rather worse-for-wear walking stick lying on the sofa and a note attached to the desk with a knife. I picked up the stick, noting that it had been chewed on by a small dog, came from "friends at C.C.H… probably Charring Cross Hospital, and belonged to a country doctor who did a great deal of walking. He was also absent-minded, having left it here. I set the stick back down and picked up the note.

"Sherwood," it read. "Dr. Mortimer will call at eleven o'clock this morning. I expect to be back before then, but if not…."

There was a knock at the door. I called "come in!" and was immediately set upon by a small spaniel. There was a youngish man with spectacles, flushed cheeks, and dark hair not far behind him. He also had the faintly quizzical look of the academic who spent very little time in the real world, which perhaps explained his absent-mindedness.

"Dr. Mortimer," I asked.

"Yes," he said in a rather breathy voice that was more air than voice. "Very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Holmes."

"Miss Sherwood, actually," I said, keeping my tone pleasant and conversational. "Is that your walking stick there?"

"Oh yes, it is. Thank you very much. I must have left it here, earlier. Is uh, Mr. Holmes about?"

"He should be here any minute. Would you care for something to drink while we wait for him?"

"Yes, thank you."

As I was reaching for the bottle on top of the mantelpiece I heard the downstairs door bang open. "Oh there he is."

"How do you know?"

"Well, our landlady doesn't open the door that way."

Holmes appeared at the doorway, and Dr. Mortimer practically quivered in excitement.

"Mister Holmes," he said, enthusiastically wringing my mentor's hand. "What a pleasure it is to meet you! Would you have any objection to my running my finger along your parietal fissure?"

The glass stopper of the bottle clanged noisily against the silver tray.

"Please, Dr. Mortimer," Holmes said, removing his grey tweed Inverness coat with a flourish.

"I covet your skull," Mortimer said greedily, then like a child asking for a sweet went on, "Would it be possible for me to have a cast of it until the real one becomes available?"

I drank the contents of the glass I had been filling, refilled it, and then set to the other two.

"Behave and sit down, Dr. Mortimer," Holmes said sternly. "Surely it was not your phrenological passion that brought you here."

"Sadly, no," Mortimer admitted. "I come to you because I have a serious and extraordinary problem. Are you familiar with the Curse of the Baskervilles of Baskerville Hall?"

We assured him that we were not, and he went on to tell us the tale of the evil Sir Hugo who met a grisly death while pursuing an unfortunate young maid out on the moors, several centuries ago. She died from exhaustion, but he was killed by the jaws of a ghostly hound, black as the night itself with eyes like burning coals.

"All of his friends were changed men after that night," Mortimer continued. "Sir Charles Baskerville entrusted me with the manuscript of the legend before his death… under mysterious circumstances."

"This is a fairy tale," Holmes said, leaning back in his chair.

"Sir Charles took the legend to heart. He was convinced that the same terrible fate that Sir Hugo suffered overhung his family. I was the one who found his body on the grounds of Baskerville Hall; there were no marks of violence upon him, but there were footprints some distance off."

Holmes opened his eyes. "Man's or a woman's?"

Dr. Mortimer took off his glasses and leaned closer to Holmes. "They were the footprints of an enormous hound."

On cue the little spaniel barked shrilly, only to be quieted by his master's hand.

Holmes hooked his fingers together and placed them at the back of his desirable skull. "This is a case of extraordinary interest. What is it that you wish me to do, Dr. Mortimer?"

"Advise me what I should do with Sir Henry Baskerville, the only heir to the great wealth," he replied. "He arrives in London tonight. I fear that he may also meet an evil fate."

"We will meet you both at ten o'clock tomorrow. Where are you staying?"

Mortimer gave the address of the Northumberland Hotel, said goodbye, whistled to the dog, and left.

"Good God," I said. "And he's married. What that woman must put up with! Run his fingers along your parietal fissure, indeed!"

Holmes burst out laughing.

The next day Holmes and I were at Sir Henry's door at exactly 9:58 am. However, Dr. Mortimer was not yet there, and Sir Henry mistook Holmes for the manager of the hotel, and took to berating him for the service, and the loss of a boot. Before Holmes could correct the young man, Dr. Mortimer appeared.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," the doctor said, causing Sir Henry to then berate _him_ for allowing him to make such a fool of himself.

He talked too much, but Sir Henry seemed an intelligent, attractive, young man. He was taller than both Mortimer and Holmes, with dark hair, dark eyes, and either naturally dark or much tanned skin. He had been in South Africa, so either theory was possible.

Sir Henry apologized to Holmes for mistaking him for the hotel manager, shook his hand, and kissed my hand, addressing me as "Mrs. Holmes."

"Miss Sherwood," I said, before Holmes could say anything that I would regret and that would put Sir Henry back into a foul mood.

To cover this second mistake, he showed us a note he had received with his breakfast that morning. It was letters and words cut from newspaper reading, "As you value your life or your reason keep away from the moor." The word "moor" was written by hand, however.

"Why is the word 'moor' written while the others are cut?" Mortimer asked.

"I don't suppose that it would have appeared in the average London newspaper," I said, as Holmes was still scrutinizing the paper.

"This letter shows that someone knows more about what goes on at the moor than we do," Holmes said. "What are your intentions, Sir Henry?"

"I will go to Devonshire," Sir Henry said. "It is my home after all. I'm still not convinced that I need the services of a detective. The real mystery," he crossed the room and picked up a brown boot, "Is what happened to my other boot."

Something crawled out of the boot and onto Sir Henry's wrist.

"Don't move," Holmes shouted, "as you value your life, do not move!"

Sir Henry froze, but his eyes travelled down his arm to the humongous loathsome creature creeping up his arm. His eyes widened and sweat beaded on his temple. Holmes had his riding crop with him, with which he brushed the spider onto the floor. It scuttled across the floor, and up a chair leg, where I put an end to it with my knife. It twitched a few times then was still.

I lifted up the knife, which the nasty thing was speared to, and looked for something to put it in. Sir Henry was slumped in a chair, having brandy poured into him by Dr. Mortimer, so I decided not to bother him by asking if I could have the small box I saw on the nearby table. Carefully, with a pen, I slid the spider off the blade and into the box, closing the lid on top of it.

"Leaving London seems to be a wise idea, Sir Henry," Holmes said, quite cheerfully. "When do you leave?"

"In two days' time," he replied, wiping his brow. "Will you accompany me?"

"I have other business to attend to in London," Holmes said and turned to me. "Sherwood, I want you to accompany Sir Henry to Baskerville Hall. You will be my eyes and ears in Devon. I will join you when I can."

Sir Henry looked uncertain about this arrangement, but perhaps the knife stained with spider blood that I was still holding made him keep his mouth shut.

From the hotel we went to the British Museum, with me cradling the spider box in my hands. Someone pointed us in the direction of a specialist who would look at Sir Henry's would-be assassin. He was an old man with grizzled gray hair, a very large nose, and a peering expression from looking at specimens in poor lighting for too long.

"Oh this is lovely," he said, opening the box. "Tsk… he's been roughly handled. Where did you find him?"

"He was in a boot," Holmes said.

"Ah yes, just come from South America, no doubt," the old codger said. "Happened to me a few years ago, look."

He rolled up his sleeve revealing a nasty puckered scar with two x-shaped lines leading out from it. Then he went on to describe the nature of his injury and how long it took to suck the venom out and several other grisly details from the incident that I wished I had not heard.

"Yes, sir," he told Holmes. "You were lucky. If she had bitten you and you hadn't got immediate medical attention, you would be dead by now."

"She?" Holmes asked.

"Yes. The females are larger and much more vicious in this species… the black jaguar1."

Holmes looked at me as if he expected me to suddenly sprout chelicerae and bite him to death. I rolled my eyes.

"Well, Holmes," I said as we left the museum. "That sinks the theory that the spider came in Sir Henry's luggage."

"Yes. There are sinister forces at work, here, Sherwood. Don't let Sir Henry go unaccompanied on the moors; send me daily reports, and take your revolver."

"What is this other pressing business, Holmes?"

He didn't reply but lit his pipe, letting me know that whatever it was, it was none of my business.

1 Fictional spider, as tarantulas can't do more than give you a good pinch.


	2. Baskerville Hall

Two days later Sir Henry, Dr. Mortimer, Spot (his spaniel), and I set off for the Devon. The landscape was wild, craggy, and very cold. I thought of the events of _Wuthering Heights_ (a book I loved but Holmes refused to look at) and wondered what awaited us at Baskerville Hall. As Holmes had said on numerous occasions, in the city there was always someone to hear a scream, while in the country people were free to commit any horrendous act with little worry of getting caught.

About three miles or so from Baskerville Hall an official-looking person stopped the carriage and warned us about an escaped convict… a murderer.

"One of our largest prisons is housed on the moors," Mortimer explained to Sir Henry and me, "Dartmoor. It's about seven miles from the Hall, so about four from here. Is the fellow especially dangerous?"

The man shrugged. "He's a murderer, ain't he? Don't venture out too far if you don't want your throats cut."

I'd come close enough to that fate in earlier in the year at the hands of Jack the Ripper. I was saved by a courageous little flower vendor with a bucket. That was in January of 1889; it was now March, and I had every intention of keeping my throat free of cuts. All the more reason not to stray too far off the grounds of Baskerville Hall, I thought, as Dr. Mortimer started on about skulls again. Apparently there were fossils to be found on the moors, or at least the remains of primitive peoples. I had little interest in thing found underground; there's no future there.

Arriving at Baskerville Hall, we were greeted by a very handsome middle-aged man, the butler, who introduced himself as Barrymore. His wife was also handsome, though she seemed very nervous. I could not exactly blame her; the ancestral home was not what one could call inviting, and the previous master had just died under somewhat shady circumstances.

Dr. Mortimer declined to stay for dinner (his wife was waiting for him), said goodbye, and returned to his own home. Sir Henry and I went to our rooms to freshen up a bit before dinner, and to explore the house a bit. My room adjoined the empty one next to mine, and it overlooked a particularly rocky section of land. I told Mrs. Barrymore that I could manage unpacking, did some of that, and started my first letter back to Holmes, describing the scenery, the Barrymores, and mentioning what the official had said about the escape from Dartmoor.

The rest of the day was uneventful, but in the evening something rather unusual happened. I did not go to bed at my usual hour, I did not even undress. I sat up reading, and was surprised by a faint knocking on my outer door. It was Sir Henry; he made the "shh" gesture and pointed down the hall. I tiptoed behind him, and let him lead me to Barrymore, who was standing at the window with a candle in his hand.

"What are you doing, Barrymore?" Sir Henry asked.

Barrymore jumped and turned around, looking very guilty. He was not much taller than I, so Sir Henry towered over him, no doubt adding to the intimidation. "Nothing, sir… just checking to see that this window's locked."

"Go to bed, Barrymore."

"Yes, sir."

Sir Henry took the candle from his servant, who disappeared into the dark hallway. I in turn took the candle from Sir Henry, and on a whim waved it once in front of the window. A light far in the distance blinked back at me.

"He was signaling someone," I said. "It looks like the someone is down at the ruins."

"Is he plotting against me?" Sir Henry asked, sounding more irked than frightened.

"I don't know. Shall we investigate?"

"I'll get a lantern."

Out on the moors it was so dark that even with the lantern we could barely see. The wild wind threatened to completely extinguish the flame, but we managed to reach the ruins without being plunged into complete darkness. The smell of campfire was in the air, along with a few others that were not so pleasant. Sir Henry held the lantern above his head, casting a wide circle of light around the two of us. It was an innocent logical gesture, but it brought back an unpleasant memory of an American Indian story about a vampire skeleton that was kept at bay by torchlight in a setting very similar to this.

I shook my head like a dog clearing its ears of water, sending the skeleton back into the recesses of my memory.

"Uh someone's definitely been camping here," I said. "And you can smell the fire."

"Yes," Sir Henry lowered the lantern somewhat. "But who?"

"I don't know, but it would probably be in our best interests to go back to the Hall. Whoever Barrymore was signaling to probably knows this place better than we."

We retraced our steps, but before we were even halfway there an unearthly howl rent the air. Sir Henry grabbed my elbow, damn near cutting off my circulation. Luckily it was my left elbow, and I was able to draw my revolver with the hand I could shoot with.

"Raise the light," I said, almost in a whisper.

He did, and we could just see the faint outline of a dog in the distance. It was roughly the size of a Shetland pony. Then it was gone.

"God in Heaven," Sir Henry said, letting go of my arm to cross himself. "It's true."

"Possibly," I said, just to be the voice of reason, but I have a strong conviction in the existence of ghosts, and the moors of Devonshire seemed an ideal place for them. "We saw a dog. That could mean anything, including nothing."

"Yes." Sir Henry resumed walking at a respectable clip. "But it's sent sleep to the Devil for me."

"And me, too. I'll sit up and read until daylight, or walk in the yard."

Sir Henry did not reply, and we reached the house safely. I retrieved _Wuthering Heights _and sat up with my host until he dozed off in his chair. Quietly, I left my chair and carried book and light over to the window. I hoped that Heathcliff and Cathy wherever they were, that they were finally happy, and I hoped that the spectral hound was just a hound. If it really was a beast from beyond the grave then there was not a lot that Holmes and I could do.

"What are you doing?"

I jumped and turned around to find Sir Henry sitting up with his eyes open.

"Pondering," I said. "I thought you were asleep."

"Just resting my eyes. I'm tired even though I can't sleep."

"I'll make some coffee," I offered.

"You don't have to."

"I'd like some, and if you need some sustenance I have motives beyond my own greed."

"All right then, if only to save you from greed."

I smiled, picked up my candle, and navigated the darkened hallways until I found the kitchen. Mrs. Barrymore kept things in wonderful order, so it was very easy for me to find exactly what I needed, and soon the smell of brewing coffee was seeping through the air, making the Hall seem somewhat friendlier. Sir Henry appeared in the doorway, but seemed uncertain about coming inside.

"Oh, come in," I said, taking two cups off a shelf. "The kitchen isn't catching. Sit."

He pulled out a chair at the table and sat. Moments later, with coffee and brandy, I joined him. We sat in silence with the first swallow or so of the hot dark liquid then he broke the silence with a question.

"How did you come to this… situation?" He asked.

I chuckled and set my cup down. "That's a question not a lot of people have the courage to ask me, and I'm afraid I don't have a very good answer. There are quite a lot of things that got me interested in the science of detection, as Holmes puts it, but if you're asking how I ended up sharing the flat with him, I'm not sure. What I mean is, I can tell you the events that led to it, but not really the why… do you understand?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Well, neither do I, but there are some things that become part of your life, or how you live your life without you really knowing why."

"I think I begin to see what you're getting at," Sir Henry said. "But it's a bit melodramatic, isn't it?"

"And what's going on in your life right now isn't?"

He smiled, revealing very white though somewhat crowded teeth. "Touché. My life has become a dime novel."


	3. The Return of Sherlock Holmes

The next day or two were quiet. Barrymore either stopped signaling his friend, or he was cleverer about it. On the second night I heard the howling again, but from my window I could not see the dog. I mentioned it to Sir Henry the following morning, but he had been asleep and had not heard it.

We went out for a walk along the moors. In the daylight, when he could see just how rough the terrain was, Sir Henry insisted on helping me over the rockiest places, or even carrying me, even though I did not need help. It certainly never occurred to Holmes to offer me this sort of help. I indulged Sir Henry's chivalry and let him carry me over a marshy place, but once we were in the ruins, I insisted on walking.

"These are lovely," I said. "I can see why Dr. Mortimer likes them. It looks as if he's been digging here, recently."

"Strange man," Sir Henry said.

I wondered if Mortimer had asked to feel his skull, too, but I decided not to ask. Sir Henry, who had been walking behind me, picked up the pace so he could arrive at the top of the hill in front of me first, and then reach me up. I sighed, took his outstretched hand, and allowed him to pull me up. Unfortunately, some of the ground gave way under my foot, causing me to fall against him. As I have said, he was a big man, still slender though, but sturdy enough that I did not send him toppling over.

"Are you all right?" He asked.

"Fine, thanks. The ground's a bit soft." I let go of his hands, ending the accidental embrace but still being friendly. "Do you…."

A thunderous coughing shook the air, making us both jump and look around. At the bottom of the hill was an old man in a seedy coat with a peddler's sack on his back. He coughed for a few more seconds then tipped his battered old hat.

"Good morning, sir, lady," he said hoarsely, scrambling nimbly up the rise like a mountain goat. "Would you like to see my wears? I have a fine selection. Perhaps this fine work of Dickens?"

"No thank you," Sir Henry said coldly.

"Or something for the lady?" The peddler waved a perfume bottle under my nose, giving me a glimpse of his sharp grey-green eyes.

"That's enough," Sir Henry raised his voice. "Be off with you!"

"I mean no harm, sir," the man wheezed, pocketing the bottle, and retreating down the hill far less nimbly than he had advanced. "I've got to eat, you know."

"I've forgotten what I was going to ask you," I said, still looking after the strange peddler. "Well, if it was important, I would remember."

We trekked onward eventually reaching more swampy land. Sir Henry picked up a rock and chucked it at a particularly gloppy place. The stone landed with a wet smack, lingered for a minute, and then slowly sank out of sight.

"Careful," a strange masculine voice shouted from our left. "Dangerous walking there!"

A man dressed in a Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers approached us. "My name's Stapleton, I live just across the way at Merripit House. I know the area pretty well, if you need direction."

"Thank you, but no," Sir Henry said. "I'm Sir Henry Baskerville, we were just exploring."

"Oh," Stapleton said. "It's a lovely day for it, but you want to be careful of these bogs… one of the ponies drowned here yesterday. Very upsetting to my sister."

"I can imagine," I said, causing Stapleton to look directly at me.

He was an ordinary-looking man, but something about his body language and the set of his mouth sent my thoughts back to the black jaguar spider.

"Lady Baskerville," he said to me, touching his hat.

Hell's bells. Why did people assume I was married to every man I was in the company of? If it happened much more with Holmes we'd be married in the eyes of society if not the church.

"Miss Sherwood," I corrected him.

He apologized warily, causing us both to look at Sir Henry, who unlike Holmes, was not offended by the mistake, but looked thoughtful.

Stapleton continued. "You must be Sherlock Holmes' _friend_. Sad business about the death of Sir Charles, isn't it? Oh, forgive me; we have a mutual friend, Dr. Mortimer. Will the Great Detective be honoring us with a visit?"

Another one who talked too much, and who had no imagination.

"Mr. Holmes has another case," Sir Henry said, letting some irritation show.

Stapleton looked disappointed. "But your company would be very much appreciated, too, Sir Henry. Please come and take tea some afternoon; I can introduce my younger sister, Beryl."

We thanked him for his invitation and promised to do so. Upon arriving back at Baskerville Hall, Barrymore handed me a note that had come earlier in the day.

"What is it?" Sir Henry asked.

"It's from Holmes," I replied. "He expects to be joining us within the next few days."

I did not mention the postscript, however, which explicitly said not to tell anyone. Holmes told me to go to a different part of the ruins later that evening. I excused myself after dinner on the pretense of a headache, but instead of retiring to bed, I bundled up for the cold and slipped out the back to keep my appointment.

It was not quite dark, but the shadows were long and the sky orange. I found another piece of paper at the mouth of the ruins that read, "Sit down and make yourself comfortable." Comfort was something not easily found in ancient ruins, but I brushed off a stone and sat. A few minutes later Holmes appeared, dressed in his overcoat, cape, and deerstalker, but with the seedy peddler's sack thrown over his shoulder.

"Hello Holmes," I said cautiously, perceiving from the look on his face that something was greatly troubling him. "How long have you been here?"

"As long as you and Sir Henry, Sherwood," he said, throwing down the sack. "I took a later train and have been camping here on the moors."

"My letters?"

"Here," he held up several envelopes, all addressed to Baker Street.

I shook my head. "You utter bastard. I knew something about your other case was fishy, and I recognized you this morning, by the way, even though you fooled Sir Henry."

"How did you recognize me?" He asked, sounding more irked than pleased by my skill.

I smiled a little, "By your eyes."

He looked somewhat startled by that, but a second later he returned to being peevish. "I've been watching what goes on here at the moors. Stapleton is undoubtedly our man. We must return to Baskerville Hall; I'll explain on the way."

We left the ruins and set off in the direction of the Hall. Suddenly the sound of a baying hound stopped Holmes from explaining before he even got started, followed by the tortured scream of a man. I drew my gun, and Holmes and I ran in the direction of the sound. We arrived just in time to see a man in a well-cut brown suit fall over a cliff, pursued by the Hound. It was the dog Sir Henry and I had seen before, big as an elephant, and apparently as savage as a lion.

I shot at it and missed. The beast ran away getting lost in the shadows.

"Save your ammunition," Holmes said. "Whatever could have possessed Sir Henry to come out onto the moors alone?" He took two more steps. "Hullo, hullo, it isn't Sir Henry at all! It's that convict, Seldon."

"In Sir Henry's clothes," I noted, looking at the dead man's frozen expression of terror. "Poor fellow. Hold on, Holmes, there's someone coming!"

It was Stapleton.

"Not a word to show our suspicions," Holmes said, _sotto voce._

"What happened here," Stapleton called. "I heard a cry."

"Seldon," I explained. "He broke his neck falling on the rocks."

"We were out for a walk and heard this poor devil as well," Holmes said.

Stapleton turned to look at him. "Good evening, Mr. Holmes, we've been expecting you. I invited Sir Henry over, and when he did not appear I became alarmed for his safety."

"Understandably," Holmes studied poor Seldon for a moment longer. "I suppose there's nothing to be done but leave him here. I must speak to the police about him now."

"Of course," Stapleton said, putting his hands in his pockets. "Tragic, but it relieves the tax-payer of another burden, doesn't it?"

"That's one way of looking at it, yes," I said, coolly.

Stapleton wished us goodnight and turned back in the direction of his own home.

"What nerves that man has," Holmes said. "How he pulled himself together when he found that the wrong man has fallen for his plot! But now we must return and bear the bad news to Mrs. Barrymore about her brother."

"Her brother? Of course! That's who Barrymore was signaling, and that solves the mystery of how Sir Henry's clothes were on his body."

Sir Henry was surprised but pleased to see Holmes. However, my mentor wasted no time in sending for Mrs. Barrymore to give her the sad news.

"Your brother," Holmes said, and she burst into tears.

"They caught him! Oh please forgive us, Sir Henry! Seldon was my brother even though he was no good, and we had to help him!"

"No, Mrs. Barrymore, I'm afraid it's worse than that… he's dead."

Barrymore quickly embraced his wife, though whether it was out of compassion or to muffle the noise, I couldn't be sure.

Sir Henry looked confused then he seemed to get the picture. "He was the one you were signaling from the window, Barrymore?"

The butler nodded, looking grim.

"And you gave him food, and Sir Henry's clothes," I said.

"The ones you said the iron ruined," Sir Henry seemed to think a moment. "Well, I suppose there's no real harm done. I forgive you. I'll see that you can bury him properly."

Once some semblance of order had been restored, Barrymore took Holmes upstairs to show him where he would sleep. I lingered downstairs a few more minutes then went up myself. Entering my room I noticed light under the door leading to the adjoining room, and I could smell Holmes' tobacco smoke. I bumped my forehead against the bedpost. A pity about Barrymore; I took him for a man with more of an imagination than this.

"Holmes?" I opened the door.

He was sitting in the chair by the window, smoking. "You should knock," he said irritably.

"You never go to bed this early," I replied, entering his room and sitting on the bed due to the lack of more chairs. "You never got to fully explain about Stapleton. Pray enlighten me."


	4. The Hound

Holmes, looking put-upon, rose and signaled me to follow him. We walked through the sleeping house to a lesser-used wing, where a portrait of a man with wild eyes and dressed in the clothes of the late 17th century stared over the empty hall.

"This is Sir Hugo Baskerville," he said, "the instigator of the curse. Does he not look familiar?"

I held the candle as close to the canvas as I dared. After a moment I recognized him. "Good God! It's Stapleton. An illegitimate descendant of this scoundrel?"

"It is my belief," Holmes replied around his pipe. "That he is a Baskerville and has designs on succession."

"Yes. The missing boot was to give the dog Sir Henry's scent, with the spider planted in the spare for good measure. He must have done something similar with Sir Charles, but he was perhaps fortunate in that he had a heart attack before the dog could savage him."

"Correct. His wife is also, I believe, his unwilling confederate."

"Wife? He only mentioned his sister. Well, we saw firsthand how good a liar he is." I smiled ruefully, though Holmes was still ill-tempered. "What a dark and sinister business this is, indeed!"

The following morning Sir Henry received a note inviting the three of us to supper at Merripit House, where the Stapletons lived. Holmes said that he would accept the invitation, though in his current frame of mind, I highly doubted that this would be a good idea. The rest of the day passed uneventfully, but as I was upstairs getting ready to go, I heard raised voices, and then the front door slammed. I stepped out into the hall to find the Barrymores hovering at the top of the stairs, apparently uncertain as to what to do.

"I'll handle this," I said, and descended the staircase.

Holmes was standing just out of view from the second floor, at the bottom of the stairs, arms folded.

"Care to explain what just happened?" I asked.

"I was deliberately rude to Sir Henry so that he would go onto the moors alone," he replied. "Give him two more minutes and then we shall follow him!"

"Holmes! You might have told me about this sooner." I was wearing the nicest dress I'd brought with me, certainly not meant for traipsing about the moors in the dark. "Make it three minutes."

I ran back up the stairs to my rooms, removed my earrings, wrapped up against the air, slipped into my more robust shoes, and picked up my Colt. As I rushed past the even more confused Barrymores I said, "Ready some bandages, just in case." This caused Barrymore to do a take and Mrs. Barrymore to bustle off and presumably do my bidding. Holmes was waiting at the door with that look on his face.

"We haven't a moment to lose," he said, throwing open the door, and as luck would have it, a gust of wind blew inside and extinguished the nearest lamp.

It was easy to follow Sir Henry through the moors. There was nothing to hide him, and with all people who leave in a temper, he never looked back. Suddenly there was that evil baying again, and he froze where he stood. After a moment he resumed walking, but more slowly, with more caution. We continued, too, but at a slightly reduced pace. The howling sounded again, and this time the huge dog appeared. Sir Henry took off at a run; he was a fast runner, but no match for an animal out to kill. It quickly caught up to him and seized his wrist.

Holmes and I fired our guns, and one of us hit it, for the beast howled, released Sir Henry, and fell back. We ran over, and I shot the dog again, killing it. Sir Henry was in shock, and bleeding profusely from the bite he had received. I made him a makeshift bandage out of his handkerchief.

"You have saved my life," he gasped.

"We have laid your family ghost to rest," Holmes said simply. "Are you fit to walk back to Baskerville Hall?"

"I think so," he said.

"Do you have your flask?" I asked Holmes.

He handed it to Sir Henry, who took a long swallow, then with slightly more assurance in his voice, said that he could make it back to Baskerville Hall. A man's scream tore the air, far in the distance.

"What was that?" Sir Henry asked, looking around for more hounds, perhaps.

"It came from the mire," Holmes said. "There is nothing we can do until the fog lifts. Now, Sherwood, we must get to Merripit House."

We walked quickly, and soon the house came into view. It was dark, and the door was unlocked. The downstairs was empty, but upstairs in a locked bedroom we found a woman tied up and gagged.

"Mrs. Stapleton?" I asked.

"Yes," she said weakly, rubbing her wrists where the ropes had cut into them.

She was a nice-looking woman with brown hair and blue eyes. I could see that her arms sported several more injuries besides what being tied up and gagged had done, and from the way she held herself, I knew that her ribs were paining her. Whatever sins she was guilty of, just being married to Stapleton had given her much, much more than she deserved.

"Where is Stapleton?" Holmes asked.

"There is an old tin mine on an island in the heart of the mire," she said, somewhat croakily. "Jack kept the dog there. That's where he would hide."

At the edge of the mire we found Sir Henry's missing boot; there was no sign of Stapleton except for his hat, which was soaked with the boggy water.

"The scream we heard was Stapleton, then," Holmes said. "He never reached his island of refuge."

"Better than he deserved," I replied, and he chose not to comment.

When we got back to Baskerville Hall, Mrs. Barrymore was still fussing over Sir Henry, who seemed to have made a rapid recovery. He took the news about all that had gone on with the sentiment that nothing surprised him anymore which I suppose was understandable; though I think one never runs out of the ability to be surprised.

Holmes announced that he had made arrangements for the two of us to return to London the following day. After he had gone upstairs Sir Henry approached me, looking almost shy.

"Would you consider staying here?" He asked.

I smiled. "Sir Henry, I'm flattered, and it's lovely of you to ask, but no. I like you very much, but I just can't see myself staying here forever."

He nodded, looking disappointed, but not necessarily surprised. "I thought as much, but I had nothing to lose by asking. You aren't like any other woman I've ever met."

"Thank you." I let my smile blossom into a grin. "Now sit down so I can kiss you goodbye."

Midmorning the following day Holmes and I departed. On the train ride back to London, he finally asked me the question that must have been gnawing at him since the previous night.

"What did Sir Henry want to speak to you about?"

"He asked me to stay," I replied.

"And?" His voice remained even, and his expression did not change, but I noticed that his grip on his pipe became much tighter.

"I told him that it was lovely of him to offer, but that I couldn't possibly accept. I'd have to be respectable."

He nodded and leaned back against his seat, grip on the pipe normal again. I leaned back against my seat as well, letting my head drop against his shoulder; I was genuinely tired and eventually fell asleep, waking up just before we reached the station.

A few days later we received a gift from Sir Henry. It was the portrait of Sir Hugo Baskerville that had proved Stapleton's guilt. There was a short note explaining the meaning of the present.

"I believe I have suffered enough at the memory of this rascal to have any want of his likeness," Sir Henry wrote. "Therefore I entrust him into your care, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps you will find more use for him than I have."

"And I shall," Holmes said, handing me the portrait. "You may choose where to put him."

I used the portrait to cover up the bullet holes in the wall from his target practice about a month before. Turning back around to Holmes, who was seated at the breakfast table, I said, "You knew I was going to put him there, didn't you?"

"Elementary, my dear Sherwood," he said, his eyes glinting. "Muffin?"


End file.
